


Catapults and Crushes

by lexiewritesthings



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Hartmon Week 2016, M/M, Pre-Relationship, School Project, Titles are hard, at first at least, cisco is trying his best every1, hartley is me when it comes to group work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7024129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexiewritesthings/pseuds/lexiewritesthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to the deity of partner work, Pleasepleasepleaseplease-</p><p>"Hartley, Cisco." The gods were dead to him. He slowly turned in his seat, dread curling its greasy fingers around his stomach. Hartley glared at him over the top of his glasses.</p><p> </p><p>Hartley and Cisco get stuck together working on a school project. Neither is happy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catapults and Crushes

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd so let me know if anything's off! this ended up way, way longer than planned, and it's not finished yet SO. (there are mostly no crushes in the first chapter)

"You'll be working with partners for this project," Ms. Clarke said. Cisco locked eyes with Barry across the classroom and grinned.

"I will be assigning the partners," she finished. A chorus of groans erupted from the students. Ms. Clarke began reading off the list of partners. Cisco realized she was going down the rows of desks and silently cursed whatever sick mind had first came up with alphabetical seating. He looked to the desk ahead of him. Lisa Snart, slouched in her seat and twirling her hair around her finger. His heart pattered hopefully. Okay, he could work with that. He could work with that. He twisted to look behind him and saw his life flash before his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to the deity of partner work, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-

"Hartley, Cisco." The gods were dead to him. He slowly turned in his seat, dread curling its greasy fingers around his stomach. Hartley glared at him over the top of his glasses. Caitlin cast him a sympathetic look over her shoulder as she shifted her desk over to work with Lisa.

Hartley Rathaway was an enigma wrapped in a mystery and tied up with a ribbon of douche baggery. Central City High was divided pretty clearly into social groups as per teenage movie stereotypes. There were the cool mean kids, the nerds, and the kind of sad kids who just did a lot of drugs. Cisco fell pretty clearly in the nerds category. Hartley was too nerdy to fit in with the cool mean kids, too mean to fit in with the nerds, and too rich to fit in with the kind of sad kids who just did a lot of drugs. Freshman year, as everyone bumbled about trying to find the spot where they fit in the high school puzzle, the cool mean kids had tried to be mean to him and ended up with inexplainable failing grades, the nerds had tried to be nice to him and had ended up with severely damaged self esteem, and the drug kids had tried to give him drugs and ended up with- well, actually, Cisco wasn't sure what had happened there.

Maybe Hartley did do drugs.

"Sooo," Cisco said. Hartley's nose with in a huge book that appeared to be written in another language.

"What are we doing?" Cisco said. Hartley's gaze flicked up from under the glasses that should've sent his ass flaming into the nerds category. He shut his book and laced his fingers over the top of his desk. Cisco waited for something to explode.

”The blueprints should be finished first,” Hartley said, tone bored. Cisco waited for a snide comment. None came.

”Right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Hartley was, unsurprisingly, an absolute nightmare to work with. The project was fairly straightforward: design an accurate, fully functioning catapult. It was right up Cisco’s alley, kind of. He liked designing things. He was good at designing things, and even better at building them.

Hartley apparently disagreed with that self-assessment.

”The crossbar needs to be thicker, Cisquito,” he said, like he was talking to a five year old with a fragile ego. Cisco ground his teeth together.

”It’s a ,” he said through his teeth. “I labeled it with the measurement. See?”

”Oh, are those are words>,” Hartley said, and Cisco had to physically restrain himself by gripping the edge of his desk to keep from slugging him in his smug nose. Still, they were efficient. With Cisco’s patience and Hartley’s snark and their combined intellect, by the time the bell rang they had a good, perhaps excellent design.

“This project will require work be done outside of school! I’d recommend getting started tonight!” Ms. Name called over the noise of students gathering up their books. Hartley’s lips were pressed into a thin, white line.

Cisco started to ask, “Mine or-”

“Mine. After school,” Hartley answered shortly. He gathered up his books with stiff, jerky motions. He paused to survey Cisco, lip curling. “You may want to change.”

Cisco looked down at what he was wearing, jeans and a t-shirt with an image of the Death Star and the words “All About That Base”. He thought it was funny. “Why?”

Hartley looked at him for a long moment.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that was a joke,” he said finally. And with that, he turned sharply and strode out of the classroom.

*

Hartley was waiting for Cisco on the steps of the school at the end of the day. Cisco had changed, and would not, thank you very much. He’d already called and told his mom he would be home for dinner. Her enthusiasm had dimmed slightly when he’d mentioned that he’d be going to the Rathaway’s house, which he was pretty much with her on. Caitlin and Barry had been fascinated and horrified by the news when he’d told them at lunch.

”You’re going to his house?” Barry had said, eyes blown to the size of golf balls.

”Unfortunately.”

”At least you don’t have to work with Lisa. I don’t think she’s ever done any school work in her life.” Caitlin had stared glumly at her sandwich.

”I’d take Lisa over him any day,” Barry said. He shook his head sympathetically at Cisco. “Good luck, man.”

Hartley slipped his phone into his pocket and started down the steps, still not acknowledging Cisco’s presence. A sleek black car with tinted windows sat at the curb with a man who literally looked like something straight out of a spy movie waiting inside. Cisco hadn’t realized that rich people having chauffeurs was actually a thing. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. Barry was right. A Snart would be way better than this, petty theft and all.

The drive was silent. Hartley sat in the front seat, leaving Cisco to awkwardly slide into the back. The driver was impassive beneath his pitch black sunglasses. The interior of the car was nicer than anything Cisco had ever driven in. The seats were polished leather that looked like it’d never even heard of a spill. Cisco was too intimidated by it all to feel awkward. He just sank down a little in his seat and held tight to the strap of his backpack as the city melted away into suburbs.

Hartley’s house was huge. An honest to God mansion, complete with a fountain and pruned hedges and gardens lush with more flora than the high school’s entire greenhouse. Cisco caught himself gawking as the car pulled up the drive. It had pillars>. He realized Hartley was watching him in the rearview mirror and snapped his mouth shut. He got out of the car a little gingerly and followed Hartley and the driver up the steps to the front door. The driver had to type in a code to open it.

”Leave your shoes on,” Hartley told Cisco, the first words he’d spoken to him since class.

The interior was just as impressive as the exterior. It was spacious with high ceilings and a chandelier that was probably made of real diamonds or some unnecessarily extravagant shit. The furniture was chrome and stylish, each room expertly decorated. Hartley led him through the living room, which had walls made entirely of glass that revealed the patio outside, complete with an enormous, smooth surfaced pool and hot tub. Cisco tried to imagine Hartley, who never showed an ounce of skin past his wrists, ankles, and neck, going for a swim and came up empty. He felt out of place, something dirty amongst all the elegant, polished sleekness.

There was something cold to it all, an unwelcoming air that screamed, ”Look at us, everyone! We’re ready for our ‘Good Housekeeping’ photoshoot!’ It didn’t look like a place where a child had grown up. It didn’t look lived in at all.

Hartley didn’t show Cisco his bedroom, which furthered Cisco’s theory that he didn’t actually sleep. They set up to work on one of the coffee tables. Hartley disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a bag of supplies- wood, twine, nails.

”Raid the servant’s quarters?” Cisco asked. 

”Clever.” A woman brought them a tray of cheese and crackers and two Cokes, which was surprising normal. Cisco’d expected goose pate and caviar with red wine, or some other pretentious shit like that. Cisco settled in and did his best to block out the constant stream of not likethatyou moron and that’s your idea of an arm? Please tell me that’s a joke. Which was fairly easy to do, at least until he bumped Hartley reaching for the screwdriver and messed up the piece of wood he was cutting and unleashed a torrent of insults that left him feeling literally dizzy.

”Okay, you know what?” He held up his hands. “Let’s take a break.”

Hartley pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and glowered. “Your work ethic is truly inspiring.”

Count to ten, Cisco. They’ve probably got super ripped bodyguards waiting to taser you if you try anything at him. He stood and looked around. A grand piano caught his attention. It looked liked it’d been added in with the decor last minute, shoved into the only remaining space and left to collect dust. But it hadn’t. It was as well tended to as the spotless glass coffee tables. Sheet music was spread across the stand; a few pages had drifted down to the floor where they lay scattered about next to a stack of theory and music books. It looked loved.

”You play?” Cisco asked. Hartley nodded. “Are you good?” A shrug. Cisco plunked one of the keys. Hartley’s head snapped toward him.

”While I’m sure your rendition of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’ is absolutely delightful, I and everyone else in this house would prefer you kept your hands off of the ten-thousand dollar piano,” he said coldly. Cisco recoiled.

”Okay. Jesus.” So he did care about something. He waited a few beats.“Do you play anything else?

Hartley was still examining the skeleton of the catapult they’d built so far. “Flute.” It was spoken almost too quietly for Cisco to realize he’d said anything at all.

”What?”

”Flute,” he repeated, louder. “My favorite color is green, I don’t particularly enjoy movies, and my favorite composer is Strauss. Does that cover it, or do you have any more pointless questions?”

Cisco was saved from trying to scrounge up some peaceful response to the hostility by a woman in a pressed white silk shirt and Gucci sunglasses gliding into the room. The pompous way she carried herself screamed privilege. Hartley’s mother, Rachel Rathaway.

”Bring the bags upstairs, Dorota,” she said with a wave of her hand. Her hair was auburn and shiny. “Oh, Hartley, darling. Who’s your friend?”

”Cisco Ramon. We’re partners for a physics project,” Hartley said without looking at her. She took off her sunglasses and folded them in one elegant motion and regarded Cisco with a pleasant, vaguely amused air, like he was a novelty tea set Hartley’s brought back from China.

”Nice to meet you,” Cisco said, trying for his brightest smile. Rachel returned his smile briefly and looked toward the piano.

”Hartley, you left your sheet music out again. You know how your father feels about that,” she said.

”I’ll deal with it.”

”Thank you, darling. Dinner is in half an hour!” She glided off again, heels clicking against the marble floor. Hartley erased something on Cisco’s blueprint and redrew it. Cisco was quiet. Something about the encounter had left a bad taste in his mouth. It’d felt oddly scripted. Part of him wanted to look around for the film crew responsible for Keeping Up With the Rathaways. Another part of him sort of wanted to pat Hartley’s shoulder.

He did neither.

*

Dinner at the Rathaways turned out to be quite the event, which was weird because there was a grand total of four of them. They sat at a table capable of seating at least fifteen. The food was some sort of roast served over a mushroom risotto. It was really, really good, which pissed Cisco off.

Osgood Rathaway was a pudgy, balding man with a glare that could’ve rivalled Rockefeller’s (did Rockefeller glare? Cisco always pictured him with a glare). He wore an expensive looking suit. Cisco didn’t have a hard time picturing him running Rathaway Industries. It was harder to see Hartley in that position.

Conversation was pitifully limited. Rachel asked Hartley a few questions about school and received short, one sentences in response. Osgood glared. It was awkward. Cisco forced himself to chew slower than he usually would’ve. They’d poured him a glass of wine; he wasn’t sure if he was actually supposed to drink it or not. He noticed Hartley mostly picked at his food.

”Cisco, is it?” He jumped a little at being addressed. Osgood was eyeing him, wineglass raised in one meaty hand.

”Yes,” Cisco said quickly.

”You go to school together,” Osgood said, not really a question. Cisco nodded.

”I think it’s very nice they’re still doing group projects,” Rachel said. “It’s good to see them fostering teamwork.”

She took a sip of her wine. Cisco resisted the urge to tell her that “teamwork” didn’t seem to be a word in her son’s vocabulary.

”Have you been thinking about colleges yet?” Osgood said. Cisco decided that the frown was permanently imprinted into his features.

”A little, yeah,” Cisco said.

”Where?”

Cisco sort of wanted to disappear. “Central City University, most likely,” he said.

”And what are you planning to study?” Rachel’s interest seemed polite at best. Hartley wasn’t even pretending to listen. He stared moodily at his wine.

”Mechanical Engineering,” Cisco said. Rachel smiled pleasantly.

”How nice,” she said. Her gaze flicked to her son. “Hartley’s planning to pursue physics. He’s quite talented, you know.” Cisco forced a smile. He knew. Anyone who’d known Hartley for more than thirty seconds knew. “He also wanted to go into music, but that’s such a difficult career, don’t you think? Terribly inconsistent.”

”Mm,” said Cisco. Hartley was listening now, watching his mother over the top of his glasses. His expression was stony.

”Well, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of work open in Molecular Engineering,” she said. Cisco bit his tongue to keep from correcting her. “Are you quite good at it?”

”Cisco’s a genius,” Hartley said. Cisco seemed to be the only one to detect the note of insincerity in the words. Rachel smiled. Osgood glared. There were a few beats of silence.

“That’s quite the amusing shirt you have on. Very clever.” Rachel said it like, ‘my, what a lovely pet termite you have’. Cisco suddenly wished he’d changed after all.

”Thanks,” he said. The conversation was seemingly over. The rest of the meal was finished in silence. Cisco wasn’t sure how much more of this he could handle. He started to stand to bring his sink to the kitchen, but Rachel waved him off.

”Dorota will take care of it,” she said. The woman from earlier whisked Cisco’s plate from the table along with the others and carried them off. Cisco wondered what it was like to never have to do anything for yourself. Probably pretty nice. Hartley was on his phone, the glow of the screen dramatically obvious in the dim lighting..

”Hartley,” Osgood said. Hartley pocketed the device again and looked at Cisco, standing.

”The glue for the structure is probably dried,” he said flatly. Cisco stood as well. His skin was crawling unpleasantly.

”Actually, I need to get home,” he lied. “It’s pretty late.”

”Do you need a ride?” Rachel said. He shook his head. He did, technically, but he wanted to get away from the stifling scent of white privilege and wealth as soon as possible. He looked at Hartley.

”My house tomorrow?” he said. Hartley was looking at him with an expression that he couldn’t decipher. He nodded once. Cisco turned and hurried from the living room, the robotic living room, the empty mansion, already dialing his mom’s phone number. He’d get through this stupid project, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

**Author's Note:**

> the catapult project is actually something my school does. it's the worst. i feel like group projects are used in every single high school au. i don't care, i love the cliche.


End file.
